Ozymandias
by hyb9
Summary: SCRAPPED and rehabbed as Our Kingdoms Lost.
1. Prologue

[Not my characters, not my money]

"There are many things of which a wise man might wish to be ignorant."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

...

The cave is still roughly hewn, but it shows potential. If Alfred could see the full extent of Bruce's sketches, blueprints, it would likely crack his indomitable butler. Bruce wisely files them away.

The cave is his garage, work room and office. That the cool, exceedingly dry air is kind to his sprawling bank of computers is an added benefit.

Few personal touches alleviate the brutal efficiency. The eccentricity, of course, of what he already calls his "Bat-Cave". The suits, neatly arrayed as any museum pieces. Dazzling equipment, so many prototypes that Ted Kord funneled his way before the ink was dry on the patent applications.

In the vastness, the small glass display case is overwhelmed. No larger than a postcard, habitually shoved in a drawer beneath the bank of keyboards to be forcibly ignored.

Three bullets. Non-lead bullets, or they would be multitudinous fragments rather than crumpled shells. One for Mother. One for Father. One for young Bruce Wayne. Identical to its mates, he only knows it because he can't help but know it. The police determined that the shot ricocheted, when it came back and took the mugger through the throat.

They're not incorrect, for all that the detectives have never established -what- the bullet simply bounced from. Maybe brick, maybe a dumpster. The assailant was dead, all the loose ends neatly bundled. Minus three missing bullets, which no one would ever look for. If bribing police officers were -difficult-, Gotham would be a very different city. The evidence lockers' inventory lists read like Swiss cheese.

Bruce remembers perfectly well how his older brother -grabbed- him, and the bullet bounced off Clark's forearm like steel.

* * *

><p>"Absolutely not."<p>

Perry White's hand freezes comically in midair, cigar never reaching his lips.

Over the years, he has become -relatively- certain that Tyrone Power isn't an ax-murderer by night. Relatively. Power is just very large, to the tune of nigh on six and a half feet that don't bear -considering-. And constructed from, what, nearly three hundred pounds of muscle? But even professional football players can be charming. If they talk.

Talking isn't Power's strong suit. And a man his size -needs- to be talking a bit, to put people at ease. There sure as hell isn't anything reassuring about his stolid expressions. You could always tell a new secretary at the Daily Planet – they freeze like wide-eyed mice when Power walks by. The veterans cross themselves, and never look up.

If he were to make the slightest effort to be less -terrifying-, the journalist could be receiving a very different manner of female attention by the boatload. Tyrone Power the matinee idol had been dark-haired and handsome. Power (very potentially an ax-murderer and Perry would concern himself with weapons in the building but really, if Power decided to kill someone on the spot, he wouldn't need any more than his massive -hands-) is. Well. Dark-haired and handsome. Exceedingly masculine, like the clean-cut all-American answer to some Soviet super solider. Three hundred pounds of nothing but muscle that looks solid as granite and no, Perry isn't thinking with some seriousness about whether he'll make it to the door of his office in time to escape, if Power has chosen today to snap.

Man doesn't utter more than eight to ten words a day, according to Lois' calculated average (she's explained that some days may earn a few sentences, but then Power will be silent for a -week-). When he does, they're flat and – he'll never say creepy out loud, not when his staff can hear, but creepy is the word. Low and dead.

Which made it pretty goddamn stunning when Power -snapped- at him. That 'absolutely not' over what, Bruce Wayne? It had seemed reasonable. Wayne is a polished young shark, he hardly needs a guiding hand, just a chimp to hold the tape recorder.

Not that he plans on calling Power a chimp in this lifetime or any other. Man happens to be an excellent writer, if distant. Maybe just muscle, to jolt implacable fucking Bruce Wayne into a moment of vulnerability. Even Wayne would feel vulnerable, if Power decided to trot out that restrained violence Perry is still- examining. Never thought he'd miss the creepy flatness...

Maybe the two of them would knock together like sociopathic boulders until one or the other was ground to dust...

"Is that all, Mr. White?"

There it is. Blankness. Devoid. Blue eyes shouldn't be this unnerving, and Perry's never been one to balk because another man intimidated him-

This is not a man. This is a tank. On his payroll.

"Yeah, that's it. Your loss, Power. Back to your desk."

The giant nods, departs, and Perry is pleased at his own steadiness.

There will be no more written applications. Prospective employees will come to the office -in person-, bearing their resumes and clippings. They will submit to psychological evaluations, and Perry White will never wind up hiring a lunatic like Tyrone Power again.

* * *

><p>"You realize I have no intention of answering you."<p>

Well, it has been five minutes of that bitch-queen silence, but a girl can always be patient. Lois will never say these words. She smiles at Bruce Wayne with all her teeth. Bastard. But that is a gorgeous suit. Are the pinstripes really white, or the palest possible shade of blue because he just -knows- what it does for his eyes?

Pretty, if they weren't chipped ice.

Hn.

"As much as I've enjoyed taking all manner of careful business statements – your public relations department must -swoon- at your dedication- you realize I'll require some indication that you have a pulse."

"I would expect the project to be a viable human interest story."

"And it will be."

"Youth shelters are much-needed in Gotham."

"Of course they are. But you're naming the initiative after your brother."

"No, another Clark Wayne. Quite unrelated."

If that little twitch at the corner of his mouth is Wayne's version of laughter- Well. That's horrifying. How is this man only twenty-five? Maybe it's the manor. Lois finds herself imagining a strange childhood. Without parents, a house like this would be cavernous and cold. His staff has it warmly lit, and this may be the loveliest kitchen she's ever sipped delicious coffee in, but-

Did a team of image specialists push this interview into the kitchen, not the office, to try and humanize the man? Soften the sharp edges?

Good fucking luck.

"You understand why I would ask."

"I can imagine why you might -refrain-." Maybe those bared teeth are meant to pass for a grin.

"Mr. Wayne, it's the question on every mind in Gotham, Metropolis, the nation. You're naming this project for your brother, and he's been missing for ten years."

...

Next Chapter: What was, and what will never be.

Reviews and feedback are, of course, always appreciated.


	2. Chapter One

"When I was a child, I spake as a child,  
>I understood as a child, I thought as a child:<br>but when I became a man, I put away childish things." [Corinthians 13:11]

* * *

><p>"Clark. Do you understand why you were in trouble?"<p>

The boy twitches, and stares with greater determination at his shoes. Martha thinks it's the onset of puberty. Their eldest is-

They say he's thirteen. Maybe that's close. Maybe not. Thomas has no idea what puberty looks like, when a boy is-

Different.

The kind of different that can't be thought of. Not too often.

"You know better."

That earns a flash of young indignation.

"You don't agree?"

"He hurt Bruce!" Clark spills the words like they've been pushing at his throat to escape all this time. Too-wide eyes beg his father's understanding.

"Alfred tells me it was an accident, that Bruce took a tumble when he and Tommy were playing."

"Tommy shoved him." Flat and mutinous, so unlike their sunny boy that Thomas blinks.

From the drawn curtains in Clark's bedroom, Thomas can see the garden where Bruce fell. Where Clark broke the Elliot boy's nose. It is silent now, gilded silver, devoid of the echoes of the children's play. The fountain is still, not a ripple disturbing the glassy sheen across the water.

"Clark." The urge to kneel and take his son by the shoulders is strong, but Clark is as tall as Martha, now. "They were playing, these things happen. What you -cannot- do is hit people, certainly not children. I've splinted your brother's finger, he'll be fine." The urge overpowers, and he hugs his son around the shoulders, holding him close enough to smell the sunlight Clark carries with him. "Your mother and I know you'll always protect your little brother. We couldn't be more proud. But you -cannot- hit people. You know how strong you are, son."

Their son grows like a stalk of wheat, he's stronger every year, and Thomas won't allow himself too many physiological considerations. Clark is not a specimen. The boy shakes, only once, in his father's hold.

"Dad, why am I different?"

The question comes more frightened and uncertain with every year. Thomas can only kiss his son's brow. Protect him from that knowledge a while longer.

"Because you're our special boy."

…

The lava closes over his head.

No, not lava. Magma. Clark is relatively certain that his Earth Systems professor back at Wertham would wince at the misconception. Lava outside the volcano, magma when still dormant in the earth.

And Clark is very much -inside- the volcano, at the moment.

The urge to open his eyes is strong, but it would be unfortunate to learn that they might not be as invulnerable as the rest of him. Even through his lids, the glow of molten rock shows warm and bright. The pressure is a vise. A test of long limbs proves that he can still move.

If he couldn't? Maybe he would sink under the crushing tons of liquid rock, remain untouched until the next eruption. A few thousand years from now.

Clark experiences a nauseating certainty that he may be immortal.

Pressure, radiant amber and scarlet glowing through his eyelids. For a moment he is young again, chasing Bruce through the woods along the estate while sunset spills luminous tangerine through the branches-

Then nothingness. A moment of blessed nothingness. His name was Clark, but here he has no name. Twenty years old and he had a family, once, but that drifts away. Dissolves. Enough heat to liquefy stone, could it be enough to burn away history like it never was?

So much heat, no kiln or flickering flames can compare. His impeccable prep school education rears its head again. Depending on the composition of the rock, the magma's temperature could be anywhere from thirteen-hundred to twenty-four-hundred degrees Fahrenheit.

No, he ought to use the Celsius scale. He's in Colombia. Nevada del Ruiz. That would be – seven hundred to thirteen-hundred degrees, Celsius. An analytical part of him would like to know, exactly. For scientific purposes.

But he's been living out of a battered Honda Civic for the past two years, so he hardly has the right equipment at hand.

...

Alfred tells the story often, as if Clark won't remember.

Clark is starting to understand that maybe he -shouldn't- remember. So he never says a word, and nods when appropriate.

Maybe this isn't a typical bedtime story, but Bruce loves it, kicking his little feet under the blankets.

"Wait. Did you brush your teeth?"

Bruce squirms away from his brother and buries himself beneath the richly embroidered duvet.

"Yes! Story now please!"

Clark ducks his head under the covers, pulling at Bruce's jaw to sniff his mouth in an exaggerated fashion. "You stink, baby bro. Do you want all your teeth to fall out? Go brush or I'll tell Alfred no story tonight."

Clear blue eyes widen at the betrayal. Bruce kicks his feet again, once, and dashes out from beneath the blankets as though his pajamas flaming.

When they're settled against the pile of pillows again, and Bruce is curled against his brother's side (all sins of toothpaste forgiven) Alfred allows them an indulgent smile before continuing.

Bruce still has a day nanny, since Clark is well into the first grade. Helene goes home at night, and Alfred tells better stories, anyway.

"When you were born, Master Bruce, there was a great tumult in the household," the butler intones, with all the gravitas of Greek myth. "Your mother and father left for the hospital in the night. Young Master Clark was scarcely three, and quite confused in the morning. His parents had vanished, and no matter how many times he had begged your mother to let him feel you kicking at her stomach – and I assure you, it was often – it seemed improbable that anything should -happen-.

"We walked in the garden, fed the geese at the pond, and Master Clark helped Miss Suzanne in the kitchen with all the dishes. But every time a floorboard creaked, or a door opened, your brother ran for the door. He even insisted on building a fort in the sitting room closest to the foyer, out of tablecloths and chairs stolen quite effectively from the dining room."

"And he fell asleep on the floor," Bruce interjects eagerly, lifting his head from Clark's ribs. "Then what happened?"

"As you seem to know already – why one would think you had heard this story before, Master Bruce," Alfred teases, schooling his mouth into sternness beneath his mustache. "Perhaps you would rather hear another?"

"No! Tell it, tell it!" Bruce wriggles so insistently against Clark's side that he fears they will both tumble out of bed. Bruce's bed. There is nothing wrong with Clark's bedroom, it's spacious and comfortable, and he could sleep with only a sheet as he preferred, no stifling blankets.

The seeming vastness of a room to a boy of four, to Bruce, means there are monsters seething in the dark corners, in the ominous closet, beneath the bed. The rocking chair takes on sinister guises in the night. Clark will sweat through sleep under any number of blankets to chase nightmares away.

"Shortly before dawn, I lifted the tablecloth and roused your brother from the pile of pillows he insisted upon taking as a bed. Your parents had returned – quite changed from their departure.

"Your father pushed your mother in a wheelchair, very carefully. She was tired, but radiant, and she held – you. She beckoned your brother close, very quietly, you were sleeping. When she tilted her arms and pulled back the blanket, Master Clark could see. And she said 'This is your brother. This is Bruce.'

"If you'll forgive me, Master Bruce, you quite spoiled the moment by waking and emitting a wail at a decibel with which I was previously not acquainted. You were terribly red and wrinkled, also, though you may not believe it now. But your brother – his eyes went round as saucers, and his mouth fell open, and I have never seen a child so enraptured by the most elaborate toys or films of spaceships and cowboys. Much less a squalling infant-"

"What's a squall?"

"You, crying really, really loud." Clark tickles Bruce's ribs. "Listen to the story."

"Indeed. And 'really, really loud' is an accurate description. But he simply -stared-, and followed your parents all the way to bed to watch you. It took a week to convince Master Clark to sleep in his own room – a matter of some difficulty to this very day – as we finally assured him that you would not vanish in the night without his supervision."

"Mom told me about changelings," the elder protests, flushing against the dove gray sheets. "I thought the fairies would come steal Bruce."

"From you, Master Clark? Never."

…

Bruce can't remember the day. The curtains are drawn tight in their parents' bedroom. He and Clark ought to shower. Their faces are stiff with the salt of dried tears, hair matted from tossing and turning in bed, unclean.

They cling, burrowing in sheets that still smell of Mother, Father. Wake. Sob. Collapse into wretched sleep again. When there are no more tears, sometimes Bruce screams. Clark holds him more tightly then, trembling as if his strong, fearless older brother might shatter at any moment.

Six days. Maybe a week. It doesn't matter.

Then Alfred comes again. Not with a silently borne tray of food, or cool hands for their brows. He helps them wash, dresses them in clean pajamas, robes, slippers for their bare feet.

Alfred takes them to a room beneath the basement that Bruce never knew existed.

Inside there is poured cement, a bare bulb, and a spaceship. 

* * *

><p>AN: Hopefully the revisions will allow the chapter to flow more coherently. Feedback is always appreciated.


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